Hyper Chondriac Music
by qcd rockets fall
Summary: eighteenth birthdays, rock concerts, broken elevators, and first kisses. gordon&billy slash
1. School of emurock and drifting, etc

A/N: oh cat-cat. I love to hear you purr. You want the nip? Dance, cat-cat, dance.

A/N2: this is ah, what's it called? Oh yeah, slash. Get this... Gordon and Billy trapped in a broken elevator. Together. Turn the emotional blender up on high, barkeep. I want to desensitize this category to utter nonsense and whimsical gobbledygook.

A/N3: definition of prima facie: exactly as it appears. So according to Gordon, Traci-Traci Prima-Facie is a vain, shallow, whore who cares only about sex and shopping (it's not a nice expression).

Disclaimer: school of rock isn't never ever gonna be mine. This alternative universe sorta, kinda is though. The band and co are seniors (17-18). Traci-Traci Prima-Facie and most fangurls are about 15. Eww.

**School of emu-rock and drifting, so so so slowly, into the night**

Today was a day of beauty. Rain in the morning, smoke machines and sound checks at night. It's their first big gig, the one we've all been waiting for. The one without Dewey.

"I'm with the band," I mutter, and try to pass as someone who should be in leather and feathers and rhinestones. I'm just slumming in my brown t-shirt, beanie, and fashionably ripped jeans.

Fake tears run down my cheeks. My chest still feels the panging aftereffects of a broken heart. Or maybe not. I'm such a phony, lying about caring about this. Dewey ignored half of the class in order to fulfill some pipedream. Like we didn't even matter? Should I be happy that he's official gone now? I'm sneering, blindly, at the lights.

"I-I-I'm with the band," I stutter again, knowing that nobody will believe me, not in a million years. I wave my sort-of ticket, my proof of worth. "See this laptop? I do the effects and shit. I need to get in there for the sound check." The thick-necked security guard doesn't buy it.

"Fuckin' groupies." He grunts and crosses his bulky arms.

Unless someone starts screaming hysterically at me like I'm God's gift to Earth, I'm not getting backstage.

I try to explain, "You're making a mistake. I _need_ to get back there."

"Yeah, and so do the two-thousand other people behind you. Unless you cough up a pass or some serious cash, you're getting nowhere."

I reach deep, deep into my jeans, like I've got all the answers nestled between a pack of Orbitz and five bucks in change. My stupidity is astounding, even to me. How could I forget? How many shows have we played? How many cities and lives have we enlightened, and probably ruined?

Very, very unprofessional Gordon.

Mass hysteria takes over. Bodies are pushing, grinding, and spewing teenage angst all over the place. I go limp and let myself be propelled to the back of the crowd. The energy in this place is unbelievable. I'm not use to it. I want to go up to my cushy booth and play God and try not to accidentally-on-purpose fry myself with the mixing boards.

The best part is, now I have to find an exit, go back to the motel, and dig up my backstage pass. Somewhere, a tiny devil-demon just earned it's miniature clip-on horns.

When I am almost there, when I almost care, the Girl-I-Never-Wanted-to-See-Again,-Ever spots me in the crowd. "Jordon, hey Jordon!" She slides over next to me and takes my free hand in both of hers.

Traci-Traci Prima-Facie was School of Rock's first, real groupie. She's blond, bubbly, barely legal with legs up to here, and is wrapped forever in pink crop-tops. She's going for the anorexia-on-uppers look tonight, and reeks of badly disguised gin and peppermint gum.

I have to put up with her because all two of her brain cells are dedicated to the band. Traci-Traci Prima-Facie screams and yells and creams her jeans whenever Freddie and the rest get on stage. She can recite the playbills from all of our shows, but has yet to master the difficult feat of learning my name.

"Gordon," I correct her, irritated.

"What are you doing back here?" She grins, oblivious. "Shouldn't you like be, doing something? Like, you know, hooking up cables or whatever? I bet if you say you're in the band, that nice-looking security guy will let us in."

Us? No, _I_ bet if she bends over a little in that shirt and acts like the oxymoronically innocent-slut she is, he'll let_ her _in.

"Do you wanna try?" she asks, eagerly.

"Nah, I'm giving up on this rock crap." I offer her in a brief lapse of humanity. "I'm quitting and getting a job pumping gas at Amoco."

"Cool." She thinks about it for a minute and purses up her thin, cotton candy-colored lips. "Wait a minute...," a slow, stupid smile infects her face. "You're joking, aren't you? Silly. I forget that you're always kidding with me, Johnnie. I have to be on my toes whenever I'm around you!" Traci-Traci Prima-Facie squeezes my unwilling hand in a display of unadulterated passion.

If you're dead, like me, you're not getting off by this little scene of mentally-challenged affection. "I have to go. Computer stuff. You know how it is."

"Ooh," she squeals, and my eardrums and heart give out, then in, then out. "Are you going to go see Freddie? Because like, tell him I said hi." She gets that dreamy look on her face, like there's little hearts floating around her head.

"I will, Traci. Just let go of my hand."

She releases it and grabs something from her purse. "Hey Gabriel, smile."

Smile?

Before I can slink away into a dark corner, she takes my picture, rapid fire. It's a digital, so I'm looking at what a mess I am five seconds later.

"See see see?" Traci-Traci Prima-Facie says, and I do do do. "It's for my memory book. I was looking through the first two-hundred pictures on my camera, and I realized I didn't have any of you, and that's bad because you're like such an important part of the band or whatever."

I can't figure out if I'm stoned or asleep. Like waking up isn't a risk I'm willing to take.

"Look," I say hotly. It's my turn to grab something from my bag. "Do you think you could give this to, ah, Tomika?"

She carefully examines the manila envelope I've shoved into her hands. "Sure. I'll give this to her. I love licking Nilla-envelopes. But this is already done. Oh, I'm sad. What's in it?"

"English homework," I lie. "It's an editorial on Shakespeare, Milton, and Spenser." Something intelligent. "You wouldn't want to read it, Traci. It would bore you to tears."

Traci-Traci Prima-Facie gives me a quick kiss on the cheek. Later, I'll rub off four tons of lipstick with the back of my hand. "Oh, Dean, you're always looking out for me. But why are you always so emu?" She asks, stalling for time, waiting for a chance.

I don't give it to her; I just smile, benevolently, like you would to a small child or a 'special' adult. "Gotta go, see you after the show, I guess."

Related to the cassowary and the ostrich, the emu runs swiftly, but is unable to fly.

It takes me about five minutes to navigate myself out of the Stadium. It's not really a stadium, that's just what the place is called. We're not _that _big yet.

Our cheap-ass motel is actually only about a mile away, so I opt to walk. Stupid me. I'm paranoid and in a slummy part of town. Someone just steal my laptop and get it over with.

But it's nice at first. The morning's rain has made everything wet and fresh. I innocently think about 'the morning after' and the O-zone layer and how plastic garbage bags are ruining the environment.

Even though it's dark out I can still see the puffy dark-cotton veil that covers the sky and suffocates the world is growing. I pick up the pace and spend less time reflecting. My laptop is the only thing that I value in my life, so I stuff it under my thin cotton shirt and pray for the best.

By the time I get to the motel, it's a full-on downpour, lightning and everything. Since there's no lobby to drip in (touring will make you choose the seediest Motel 6s), I head straight to the elevator.

"Lovely, lovely elevator," I say out loud just because I'm fucking nuts. "Take me to the top floor."

I press the 'close door' button a couple of times and wait.

"Wait!"

What?

"Hold the door, you idiot."

Fuck. It's him. Not him. Lovely him.

I hold my hand out to stop the doors from shutting. And then I send death glares. Billy. What's he doing here? I thought he went home when we were in Phoenix a week ago.

He roles his eyes, and I wonder if Billy can read minds.

"I said to hold the elevator," he says sarcastically, "but I didn't mean to hold it all day.

"Oops." I move out of the entranceway, and the doors slide shut. Elevator music, elevator music, elevator music, shut up, shut up, shut up. I hate elevator music, so I say, "I hate elevator music."

Billy frowns, "What? Do you think that this crap is turning me on or something? Idiot." He taps his foot impatiently. I'm the worst person to be in an elevator with, apparently.

So of course, when lightning strikes and the elevator gets stuck halfway between the second and third floors, I'm not cursing irony. I'm just wishing someone would strangle Billy and shut him up for good.


	2. School of brokenthoughts and FLW

A/N: Hello, oi, hola, hei, het hallo, bonjour, and ciao! Firstly, firstly is not a proper word, but a hypercorrection. Second, loves and hugs and bliss to reviewer **Chinsky**. Billy was obvious. Gordon sat next to Billy, and he played the Flute. Oh, and stalk away! (erg, evil Mel Gibson thoughts) **Nanners-77 **Hmmm... you don't like slash? That's... that's... horrible! Just pretend Gordon is a girl. **Parcie05** thanks for the input. **SD **yay! Glad you like it. Bitter sarcasm is my forte, I guess. And I'm glad I've found someone who totally gets the Billy/Gordonness. **Hopelesslydevoted12 **I have nothing against freddy/zack slash (well, I do, but I'm not going to get into it now.) Either way, I'm just trying to broaden the category! **Confwuzzled **– I've run out of things to say, except I'm glad you questioned your first judgment and gave this story a chance. I'm such a review-ho.

A/N2: Switch of POV to Billy, because I love him. Yeah, I love him enough to make him a coked-up loser. Warning: I'm take liberties with the story. **_A lot of liberties._** Enough to get it upped to M. That would mean everyone's favorite, DRUGS!

A/N3: Time frame is wonky. Not an immediate pick up from the last chappie. But just read, you'll understand once you finish (hopefully).

Mini disclaim: still not mine!

**School of Broken Thoughts and Famous Last Words**

Oh god. Oh god. Oh mothereffingeffing god.

My body is on fire, or I'm floating, or I'm about to throw up. Probably all three, with my luck. I'm exhausted, sweating, and mentally, a mess. I need one big hit. Enough to smooth out the rough patches in my life, for now, and make things okay. The Mary Jane I did a while ago is wearing off and oh god oh god oh god. It's been a week and a half since I've been on anything.

Marijuana doesn't count. I believe that you're never really on pot. It's more like suspended existence, and nothing ever bothers you, even though it should. Like when you're scoring dope in an alley behind a Wendy's, and your band is touring and your life _should_ be great, but all you need need need is a little weed, or one more hit, one more line, one more whatever, to make it all perfect again. I need something injected, snorted, or smoked _now_.

Nobody really could ever understand what I'm saying, not even me. I can't offer an excuse for my deteriorating mental health/drug fixation. I seem to be permanently stuck in a crappy day/pissy mood complex. Life and death and a million other hypocrisies maybe sort of wore me out. Billy-the-coke-fiend didn't just happen; he emerged after three or ten years of abject misery.

I am eighteen years and twelve days old, but I don't remember turning eighteen. I can't even remember if I even had a birthday party. But I do remember...

A week ago. Dewey. The cell phone in my jeans, vibrating. He called me, where was I? Doesn't matter.

He said we had to meet, worried-ness, etc. I'd recently dropped off the face of the planet without leaving any form of message system.

And I was like, 'kay, sniff sniff. Sorry man, oh that? It's just a runny nose. Allergies. Spring Flu. Fuck off.

But I didn't really say that last part. Or maybe I did, because that was when Dewey got all pissy and asked me if I was stoned. I don't think I've ever laughed so hard. Interesting side note, I pawned my cell phone an hour after that conversation. I needed some cokecokecokecoke inspiration.

Later-later mashed potater, he found me. It was weird because I don't know how he did it. Like, I was just bumming around outside of a café, and he passed by, and I was passed out. So he had to slap me around a little. Or that could have been the dealer. But I woke up and there he was. Dewey. The man with the plan.

At first he was scared, like a rabbit, or like me with my mouth hanging wide, wide open to let a tap-dancing world in. My hair was a dirty mess and my face was sunken in. I thought he was my old dealer, the one who sold bad hash, so I started to run away. I owe a lot of people money these days, so I'm paranoid anyway. But he caught up to me. Super-Dewey flying through the streets and saving me from perilous dangers, like school, bad hash, and homework. It's funny, because in my mind he has a cape and shares chronic, chronically.

"We're getting you into rehab," Dewey told me, and held me, and let me shiver into his body. "I'm not going to let you ruin your life, kid. I don't want to get a phone call at three in the morning from the morgue saying that they found you dead in the gutter."

I nodded and let him pat my head, semi-affectionately. And when he wasn't looking, I did a line off my index finger.

He was serious though, about the rehab stuff. Dewey's got Ned who's got Connections. So he called, and now I've got a ticket to the Betty Ford look-alike clinic tucked away somewhere in my backpack. I'm leaving tomorrow, but not on a jet plane. And I don't like it.

The thing that they don't fail to mention is that once you go to rehab, there's no coke. No speed, no uppers, downers, pot, morphine, K, E, or H, or any other letters of the alphabet. I couldn't even get Coke, the real kind, because it has caffeine in it. I heard they special-order the caffeine-free kind, which I won't touch with a stick.

I'm going to scream until my lungs collapse. I've got a list of aspirations. I'm going to disguise myself as someone famous and run away. Make it big in the city. Something to do with fashion, but most likely film noir. Movies characterized by low-key lighting, a bleak urban setting, and corrupt, cynical characters.

Then I'll get a necktie. No, that's not slang for drugs. I had to borrow Dewey's tie this morning to pawn. MJ doesn't come for free, you know. Anyway, when I get some money, I'm going to buy him a silk one. Something nice that'll make it up to him for having to miss the concert.

First one he's ever missed. It's not like he still plays regularly, only on special occasions. He's always there to support the band though. Freddy and Tomika and Zack and other generic band-mates are disappointed. But Dewey has to stay in the motel and watch to make sure I don't do something extreme, like a bipolar nut.

He's anxious. Tapping foot. Tap tap tap. If you strain your ears, you can almost make out the crowd and the yelling and the first chords of the first song they wrote for this tour. Dewey looks at his watch, then me, then his watch, then me. It's pathetic. Keep going back and forth like that, maybe I will go insane.

I open my mouth. "You can go, if you want. I'm sure..." I trail off, because Dewey is glaring moodily at me. He's only human, you know.

It is ALL MY FAULT. How can I get out of this one? I absently pull at my hair. How how how now, brown cow?

"If we both go together," I hear myself say out loud, tactfully, "Nothing bad will happen, I'm sure."

He gives me a wry grimace. "The counselor I talked to said it would be better for you if you stayed inside and away from 'bad influences' tonight. Considering who this is coming from, I know it's kind of hypocritical, but hey Billy, what she said sounds about right."

Yeah, to everybody but me.

He stares out for the window for a while longer, and I flip through an expired TV Guide. A crack of lightning illuminates the dark sky. The wind picks up. "Isn't the concert supposed to be outside tonight?" I ask, bored.

Dewey sits up, concerned. "Is it?"

Maybe I've got something here. "Yeah, I think I remember Frankie worrying about the tower-lights. He was going on about not having enough manpower to get them down tonight quickly if it started to rain." It's a blatant lie, I haven't spoken to Frankie in about a month.

I timidly look up from the magazine. Dewey is openly staring at me, thoughtfully. Even to me, what I said sounded like the truth. We're in a small town right now. Small towns mean small fan-bases. And about half of our roadies had called in sick. They were just worried about the predicted tornado warning.

Light droplets of rain starts to pitter-patter on the motel's roof.

"Fine," Dewey resolutely says. "Get warmer clothes on, we're leaving in five."

I suppress a tiny cheer/prayer of thanks. I find an old, blue coat in my duffel. Rummage, rummage, rummage. And, and... right when things are looking okay, they get even better. When Dewey is hunting for his shoes, I stuff a bag of E down my pants. For later.

"You coming dude?" he asks me, and I turn and nod. Yes. I'm ready. I'm steady. Here we go.

It's raining harder than I thought. Downpour. Drenching. Deluge. And some other d-words too.

We take the stairs. Not for the exercise. Or maybe for the exercise, I don't know, I'm letting Dewey lead me to my fate. When we get to the bottom step he turns, hesitantly.

He has to yell to be heard over the wind, "Look Billy, I'm going to be really busy taking down the tower-lights in this weather." Now I feel guilty. "I'm not going to have any time to supervise you. And ah, I think it would be better if you would stay here."

It's the greatest feeling in the world to know that you're not wanted. I'm used to it, from my parents. "On my own?" That'd be fantastic, a lonely room and a bag of ecstasy (named for a reason). This is how new drug addictions are started in the first place.

Dewey's face lights up. "Hey look, there's Gordon. Why don't you go hang with him for a while?"

A not-so-lonely room and a bag of ecstasy (named for a reason). Gordon is Gordon, though. I'd probably have to sneak it in the bathroom.

OR (there's always an or) I could make Dewey happy and let him watch me take the elevator up to the top floor, then get out, go back down, and hitch a ride to someplace where there's at least three H&Ms in a four-block radius. Europe it is, then.

Dewey pats me on the shoulder, all affectionate. Atta boy, good job. So I start marching by three counts. Ec-sta-sy. Everytime my foot hits the wet pavement, I mentally-shout a syllable. Ec-sta-sy, ec-sta-sy.

And then here's Gordon now. What do I have to say about him? I borrowed-without-returning his calculator once. He dresses like a Sears Catalog reject. Clothes matter to me because one day I hope to make them. Or at least design a fashion line. Project Runway 10, here I come, if I can kick the habit(s).

Can he not see me coming? The stupid idiot. "Wait!"

Gordon looks at me blankly.

"Hold the door," I say. Some people... If he isn't stoned, I don't know what he is. Definitely not human. Yeah, that's right. Glare at me. I know what you are. You're just like me.

"I said to hold the elevator, but I didn't mean to hold it all day."

Gordon grunts, or makes some disgusting animal noise. "Huh. I hate elevator music."

"What?" I mutter. "Do you think that this crap is turning me on or something? Idiot." I tap my foot on the floor. Ec-sta-sy, ec-sta-sy.

Now he's staring at me. My fast-talking, humdrum exhibitionist, what does he want? What should I-

And then the power goes off. Lightning strikes, the elevator trembles, and we are nearly transformed into beautiful, compressed cadavers.

Eff, I think, when I say, "fuck," out loud.

After a while I decide that death would be the easy way out. This is my test, or my punishment, I decide. I have to survive in here, for who knows how long, with Gordon.

I give him a couple of hostile looks, just to tell him to keep his distance. Compute yourself out of this one, computer boy.

And don't think I'm sharing any of my Ex.


	3. School of feeling good

A/N1: **Chinsky** – He does play the flute. I had to rewind it like five times to make sure. Normally I update often, but I now am in possession of a j-o-b, and I love school too much to slack on homework. Riight. **Nanners-77 **– Yay, the slash didn't scare you oft (that's a pun). **SD** – I'm sorry, but you will forever be SD in my heart. Billy... I hate to get into stereotypes. BUT I WILL. He's such a silly flamer. **Confwuzzled** – Hmm... another repeat offender! Thanks for the encouragement, because, like, I needed it. And you said effing! I effing love that word, el oh el!

A/N2: I'm disappointed in the way this turned out. And it is pure fluff at the end, but only because everyone is on a drug trip. Believe me, Gordon wouldn't put out _that _easily if he was himself.

A/N2: Back to _Gordon_, because I recently reclaimed my sanity.

**School of Benevolent Malevolence and Feeling Good**

"Gordon, Gordie, Gordon," Billy says, and combs his blond hair back with his fingers. "How are things with you? It's been so so long, too long. We totally need to, ah, ah, talk or something." Ketchup? "It's only been like a month, but a month in high school years is like, forever."

It's been ten minutes, and Billy has been talking, but not conversing. He asks, "how's the weather?" then moves on to all the latest MTV fashions he's not buying into, and tells me about the engrossing gossip he knows about OTHER people.

Billy can't stop moving or lying or digressing. I'm so fascinated with the enigma he's become. The blue t-shirt he's wearing is dirty and smelly, and Billy has never been dirty or smelly. I smile, because smiles hide so many things, like frowns, dead grandmas, and N-fucking-V.

I say, "Shouldn't we be worried about the stuck elevator?"

Billy doesn't respond. _The elevator isn't moving_, he tells me with an exasperated sigh. After a while he says, "Yeah, probably, unless you're one of those bitches who are always bitching about wanting to die."

"What?" My eyes stare into him, but not at him.

"Do you want to die, I asked. It's a very simple question." His head cocks and he does an almost-grin thing. "I know what you're thinking, Gordon. You've got the cutest face right now, this look that you usually see on old Chinese men. You're thinking 'what if it breaks and we go maybe-plummeting to our respective deaths, and the last person I'll have to see is this tweaked-out asshole.'"

"What?" I say again, very aware of my limited vocabulary skills.

Billy starts chewing on his manicured fingernails. "I'm thinking the same, so don't worry. I'm supposed to be somewhere right now, doing something wicked-intense."

"Like what?"

He contorts his face as if I just said something offensive. "But instead, I'm stuck here" _coughwithyoucough_ "because like, what could we do? Yell for el help-o? Riight."

The big red button labeled "emergency" is now officially jammed. Slamming it with your thumb a hundred-million times can do that. If I were witty, I'd attack Billy with a sharp insult, or some other form of verbal abuse. But tonight, the joke shop is closed up, with rubber chickens left to rot on the window displays.

"Do you have a cell?" I finally ask.

He hops up and down twice. "Left it in my room. Where's yours?"

I dig it out of my jacket. "Batteries are dead. I always forget to charge it."

Billy grins. "Riight."

"They are." I show him the phone's screen.

"Typical. That looks new. Just get it last week or something?"

"No." I'm confused. "Why do you hate me?"

Billy sighs and rocks back on his heels. "I don't hate, man, I'm too tired for hate right now. Oh shit. I think I'm going to like, collapse or something."

But he doesn't. And I just stand there, wondering why he 'dislikes' my guts so much when I never called him a _stupidfaggot_ or anything like all the others when he officially came out.

I sit down, or my legs give. Something that makes me find myself sitting on the floor, leaning against one of the elevator's wall. "Care to join me?"

"Are you fucking insane? Do you know what's been on the floor?"

"Yeah, feet."

"Little kid's sticky candies," he tells me, not missing a beat. "Think about it. Someone's probably spilled vodka or puked in that exact spot you're sitting in. And sometimes people fuck in elevators. Used condoms." He nods at me knowingly.

I rub my eyes. "You're the one who's crazy.

Then Billy reaches deep into his pants. He pulls out a bunch of lint and a couple of pink tablets of questionable origins. "Now. Care to join _me_?"

He's mocking me. Bastard. I let myself be filled with subtly-disguised disgust.

He gives me an innocent look, which turns into a glare when I don't respond appropriately.

"Sweet Tarts?" I'm going to be naïve.

"Ah, not quite."

"Is that...?"

"Yup. Everybody's favorite pharmaceutical." He pops one into his mouth. "Three left, G-man."

I freak. "What are you doing! Drugs are, are,"

"Bad? Thank you Officer DARE. I did not know that." Billy sits down next to me, kind of close, but also kind of far away. "Look Gordon, sweetie. I've been waiting a long time for this, since yesterday or something. You aren't going to screw tonight up with your moral-morals, are you? _That_ would be bad." He pauses. "I'm going into effing rehab soon, you know. Effing Dewey. Can't I just enjoy myself, please?"

I'm floored. It's been so long since anyone has used the p-word on me, and really, desperately meant it.

"What if somebody catches us and like, we get arrested?"

Billy laughs a little. "I know you're really just worried about your own ass. Don't worry. We're trapped in an elevator. Who exactly could see?"

I don't say anything.

"Worse comes to worse, I'll take the rest at once and, ah, go away."

We sit there for a while, not saying much. Billy pulls out his Walkman and ignores me.

I try to sleep, but can't, and end up in one of those daydream/comatose states. I half-dream about photos and flying off buildings. Everyone I once knew is there, watching but not paying attention.

Suddenly, Billy lightly kicks me. "Wake up."

"What." I grumble. "I wasn't sleeping."

"Hell you weren't." Billy says as if it's settled. "While you were sleeping, I've been busy. You know how there's usually an escape hatch at the top of the elevator, for people stuck in our sort of, ah, situation? I think I've found it."

He stops and looks at me and waits for a response. I've got nothing. And continues, "That ceiling tile doesn't seem right, you know. It looks concaved."

Math terms, at this hour? What's he thinking?

"It's kind of far up there," I say, and pray he's not going to say the words that come out of his mouth next.

"But if I climb up on your shoulders or something, we could get it. Is that cool?"

"You're nuts."

Billy smiles, deeply. The ecstasy is kicking in. "Probably. But come on," he whines. "Let's do it. I wanna get out of here. It's too rectangle-y."

I take a deep breath. "Fine. On one condition though."

"What's that, G-man?"

I've always found it so hard to stick with reality. My imagination has always claimed the bigger part of me. I daydream so frequently that I often miss what people say... or I can't remember. The harder things are, the more time I spend in my mind. At very rare times, it seems more real to me than my life.

My throat catches and I mumble, "...trysomeofyourEx."

He hears it. "Really?" Billy asks, surprised.

I shrug. Billy smiles a little bit more. "Sure, whatever."

He takes the plastic bag out of his pocket and carefully drops a pill into my hand. "One for you now, and we have two left for later."

I put it in my mouth, start to chew, and almost spit it out.

"Nonononono!" He covers my mouth with his hand. "Don't chew, just swallow." Billy urges me.

"Christ on a bike," I say, when I've got the thing down. "That tastes nasty."

He laughs at me, and with me. "Which is why you don't chew it. And we've got like an hour before it'll take effect, so maybe we should, ah, get out of here while one of us still has a clear head."

I nod. This is supposed to be my ticket out of here. What do I mean, this? I don't know.

Billy lets me climb up on his shoulders, because I'm smaller, lighter, not tripping quite so much. The panel he was talking about slides off easily, like it had been waiting for me to climb up onto a gay drug-addict's shoulders to escape from the elevator. I pull myself up to the top of the elevator. Gym class and a thousand daily girl-pushups are finally paying off. Next is the hard part: getting Billy up here with me.

Where are we going to go after I get him up here? Don't know. Don't care. Don't stare at him like that.

He throws my computer bag up to me, and I set it to the side. Then, with me reaching down, and Billy standing on his tip-toes, we fail and fail and fall and then finally succeed.

Billy grins at me, and then points over my shoulder. "Look, a ladder."

It's tucked against the wall so the elevator can work efficiently, but it's there nonetheless. The ladder leads up to an escape door on the roof, yay for us.

It's amazing. Three straight hours of bad luck, and then suddenly, everything is going my -our- way. It's stopped raining too. Well, it's drizziling, but only a little.

"Look," Billy says and points again. Except this time he's pointing at lovely, not like our escape hatch wasn't. But the distant Chicago skyline is something else.

By this time, Billy is long gone. He smiles, but it's nothing new. Maybe, I hope, this time it's for me?

He pulls out his ratty CD player with the high quality headphones, turns the volume up loud, and starts to dance. Billy gives me a look. He wants me to join.

"I've never really danced before. This isn't my kind of music either."

He giggles. "Anyone can dance to techno. Just follow the bass-line."

Then he grabs my hand and pulls me into it. I loose my inhibitions as we dance the waltz, the foxtrot, the rumba, the tango, the monkey, the grind. We rock out in the humid, balmy air of a summer-night-after-the-rain.

After executing a particularly idiotic spin, I stop and see he's looking at me.

I say, "You're not dancing," like it really, truly hurts my feelings. The Ex caught up with me, and my head is spinning, and my body is on fire.

He steps up to me, and holds me, and kisses me deep and hard and for forever. Then he pulls away, maybe realizing that I'm not like him, that I don't like him, that he doesn't like me.

I feel naked without his lips against mine. So before Billy can award himself the title "biggest idiot in the entire world and I'm so, so sorry," I kiss him.

Deeper, longer, harder. And it hurts. He's a great kisser. He's the magic I got just when I needed it the most.

I pull back first. I'm happy. I feel like joy. Like I'm accepted, and everybody loves me, and I love everybody.

Billy says something to me, but I don't catch it. I'm too busy existing right now.

So I say, "I think you're beautiful too."

Because I do.


	4. School of fucking up

A/N: for all you kids not in the know, Jonesing means to have a _strong_ need, desire, or craving for something. That something is usually chemical. Its origins are from the opiate culture. Opiate meaning opium meaning drugs, which are bad, so stay away. **Confwuzzled - **Billy! Gordon! They're perfect. Except not, because Billy is a tool (you'll see). **SD! **– lemon... lime… meh. No hot boi-boi loving this chappie. Head rush on caffeine with steroids, ei? That's not my drug of choice. In fact... I don't have a drug of choice. Yep. Been clean since February 2003, when I had an allergic reaction to a penicillin/codeine cocktail for my wisdom teeth. Go me. **hopelesslydevoted12 –** yay! I'm absolutely happy you love it. Though, you might not like me for this next part.

A/N2: Billy-boy, what am I going to do with you? Erg... read on. Flames are only accepted if you fill out the proper forms. Because happiness lost its wonder in 1992. EmoAngst! Also, I apologize that everything is moving so fast. I tried to slow it down, but this beast is running out of control.

**School of FUCKING UP **(edited version would read: school of funking up, but no, this story is not about that hepcat movement called funk)

Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit.

I didn't know. Yes. I didn't. If you build it, they will come. If you supply them, they will make that biggest mistake of their lives and regret it and hate you forever the next day.

I realize that over all the years that I have known Gordon, I never really _knew_ him. I've worked with him, and talked to him by accident, and made him run to the 7/11 when we were out of motivation. But I never cared what he was thinking about. I've sat in backrooms before with him for entire nights and have left unconsciously realizing that I'd never said a single word to him. I didn't know what he was feeling, if he was sad, happy, or angry. He was just another trivial person in my life, the one that did electronics for the band. That might make me sound like the biggest prick in the world, but that's just how it was. I only saw him as that dorky guy who sometimes let me borrow five bucks.

And last I heard, Gordon was straight.

I'm staring into dilated pupils. We move closer again until all that I can see of his eyes is a blur. I let myself drift and feel Gordon's warmness, his loveliness. He rolls his tongue around in my mouth, and tastes like tapioca, and I press my body up against his.

Gordon's French kissing another boy on the roof of a Motel 6. He's sooo straight right now. This all makes so much sense. It's cold fusion on the Kuiper cliff. Fuck. I'm thinking, whatdidIjustdo? He is Gordon and I am Billy. We do not Chex Mix.

He says, to me, he says, "Oh, fuuuckkk."

The butterflies aren't just in my stomach. They're trapped all inside me and fluttering with tiny gossamer wings. I instinctively pull Gordon a little closer and he sighs, wrapping his other arm around my waist. I untangle my hands from his, and push them down down down his body. Like Leif Erickson discovering America, like Magellan in the South Pacific, I'm exploring his contours with my fingertips and finding he's the same but different.

This is the biggest mindfuck in the world. I've met a boy that I maybe like, but can't get with him because one, we're on X, and two, I'm about to go into rehab and maybe maybe maybe I don't want to do this to him.

Do what?

Not only fuck Gordon up, but down and sideways. Make him like (like) me. Make him think that maybe we can be together, even though it's only sex, and impossible, because he's Gordon straight-and-narrow (though maybe not so much anymore) and I'm Billy the-

wait.

Be together? Sharing emotions, long walks on the beach, holding hands type-together?

Hot, hot burning skin. I'm on fire but not really. His body is my ADD. (Fuck Freddy, he only ever cared about the message not the meaning.)

This is too much. This is not me, with him, Gordon, on the roof. This is too much to believe because of just one kiss. It is dark and more than cold and fuck and what was I thinking dot dot dot question mark. I'm thinking just one more kiss, one more hit, and I'm out of here, to rehab maybe. I'm gasping for breath. This is too hard. Nothing should ever be this hard. I'm mentally tearing the petals off a flower... I love him. I love him not.

I don't even know him.

"I can't do this, right now." I don't even have the energy to manufacture tears.

He goes limp against me, and I push Gordon away physically, emotionally. Don't treat him like a person. Treat him like Christmas presents gone three days stale.

What the hell is wrong with me? Do I want to start a fight? Do I want to get us both worked up and uncontrollable? Gordon says nothing, and I'm screaming. I can feel the exhaustion/survival method kicking in.

Maybe I pushed him too hard, too far, too fast. Or maybe he just kept falling like the Roman Empire. Because when I look at Gordon again without lust blinding my eyes, his glasses are smashed and blood-angst-waterfall-death is streaming from his nose. Or maybe I didn't even push him, but punched him, and called him a fag, and ran away from certain kiss.

The logic?

Yeah. That's what I did. Because that would explain why he's not chasing after me. That would explain the lost feelings, and how I got so far away so fast from his body.

Dewey doesn't have to know. Gordon doesn't have to know. Billy doesn't have to think.

What the HELL is wrong?

I don't remember how I got down the stairs. I remember opening the fire door on the sixth floor, and suddenly I'm on the bottom. Maybe I fell. I hurt. But I don't hurt like that. Maybe I feel. Like Gordon is fuck -he called me beautiful- fucking him, fuck me I don't need this.

I'm jonesing. That's it. Jonesing for chemical dependency and a solution. Gordon was too Easy, capital E, capital lie. Chicago is too far away. Dewey is too close. He's suffocating me with near-ness and we aren't even on the same block.

The neon exit sign is right there, above the door. There's no fire/safety alarm. I think back to the supply closet I saw yesterday near my room. Nobody would see if I decided to steal. I could totally monopolize the sandpaper linen towel business by Wednesday if I wanted to. But there's no time to stop and contemplate about my hopeless future now. There's that H-word. Hope.

Hope death.

I don't have time for rationality. I'm completely screwed either way. Rehab or the _glamorous_ life-of-a-junkie? I don't even play an instrument so that wouldn't even be sexy, like Kurt Cobain suicide sexy.

"Billy? What the...?"

Someone is grabbing me. Grabbing touch touch--no. Go away, go'way.

Enter guitar solo.

Hahahahaha, it's him of course, Zack Moody-ham. All the girls love his pouty smile and that silly unibrow. In twenty years he'll have a beer belly and a day job teaching remedial English to a bunch of stoner kids. Hoping that maybe he can make a difference like Dewey did to a select few of us. (Me? No, I was like this before he came, I think.) But Zack has been too much of a pansy to say anything to me as of yet. Maybe I'm being an asshole. Maybe... I don't care. Zack is so low on my list, he's slumming with my opinion of the typical American Dream. Is that a girl on his arm? Traci, I had thought better. Of her. I believed she'd whore her way up to at least Frankie.

It's a proven fact that on my face, a smile is more aesthetically pleasing that a frown.

"What's wrong with your face?" Traci giggles and wobbles a little, like she's almost drunk.

I lay on the charm. "Nothing, dear-ling. Good show tonight, then? Clobber anyone's feet with those pumps?"

She shows off her five inch platform stilettos to me, rolling up her skirt ever so slightly. I pretend to be mildly aroused even though we all know I'm queerer than a two dollar bill.

Zack's eyes are rolling around in his head and he has got passion red lipstick on his collar. He's so shit-faced. Or I think he is, Zack's eyes are all red and that only happens when he's been crying or is drunk. And what would this Pretty Boy be so upset about? It is all so fucking cliché. Breathe in stereotypes. I live it.

He says to me like he's making a big fucking statement, "Didn't expect to find you here, Billy."

Traci licks his neck, claiming her man.

_Katie know where you are_, I want to ask. _Or who you're with?_

"That's for sure."

"I thought you said you never wanted to set foot in a Motel Six again," Zack goes.

"Things change," I go. Traci laughs, bearing her teeth to me. When did she loose those braces or her innocence?

"Things certainly do," Zack says forcefully. He's pretending we're fucking conversing like thing are normal and he's not feeling up a brain-dead skank that isn't the girl he's been dating for three years. "We gotta talk sometime, man."

Aren't we now? "No, we don't." I cross my arms, all antisocial punk-rock. But plaid makes me puke.

"Dewey told me what was going on with you and-"

Traci tugs on his sleeve, whining, "-Zacky, let's go."

He kind of glares at her. "Quit pulling on my arm." Zack makes it up to her with a quick peck on Traci's pale cheek. "Go on up to the room without me. I'll catch up."

Traci nearly falls over trying to untangle herself from Zack. "Oh, Billy Baby," she goes, rummaging through her bubblegum pink bag. "Someone gave this folder to me earlier. I don't remember who it's from or who it's to. Could you take it?" I relieve Traci from the burden of remembering, and she hugs me. Traci traipses through the door I had just Exited.

Zack just looks at me for a while. I don't need this either. I hate that he's presuming. I hate that he thinks he can make a difference right HERE and right NOW. When he had the chance before but didn't do anything and let me fall fall fall... but it was all my fault anyway.

"Don't you want to know why I'm here?" He goes. Zack is such a fucking saint. Can somebody give him a fucking medal?

I actually consider it for a moment. "Well, no. I really just want you to leave, so then I can leave, and we won't have to keep spreading the bullshitting around."

"You don't want me here?"

"I don't want me here," I go.

"What do you have to do that's so fucking important?"

I need to skip town. Get away. Go where I don't know anyone, and Zack can eat man-cock for giving me that look. I turn to leave, but he grabs me by my arm, and pulls me back. I twist my arm around, but he still won't let go.

"Lay off, Zack," I seethe. "Leave me the hell alone."

"Christ Billy. Can't you just deal? You fucked up. Get over it. It's simple: get clean, look care of yourself. Quit making Dewey worry so much about you. He's such a mess right now, and I don't even understand how he can put up with being around you. It's so pathetic when you act like this. It's not mysterious or romantic or whatever you're thinking."

Oh yeah, that's it. I'm taking up all of his precious Dewey-time. Zack gets so bitter when he's not the center of attention. He's more of an attention whore than Traci, the actual whore. I don't understand how he can even stand to be in the same room with her.

"Darling, you can suck it." I give Zack a two-handed shove and he goes flying back against the building.

"Fucking asshole! Don't call me darling." Zack yells high-pitched, like a girl or like he's in horrible pain. He scrapes his body off the wall.

"I'll fill your mouth, guy," I pant after him, "I'm so fucking hard for you right now, Zacky-baby. Suck my sperm and come like a dirty little whore that I–"

Zack screams, jumps on top of me and pins me to the ground. He pounds my face in with his fists. I can't move my arms to protect myself because his legs are squishing my elbows. And I can't breathe because his knees are digging into my chest. I yell as loud as I can and try to push him off, but he's bigger and always gets the girls. My eyes blur, and I need to retch. This is the kind fight I've always wanted to be in, but only on the other end I realize now. Zack keeps punching me and spits in my face, maybe not realizing it, but probably doing it on purpose.

I let him beat the living shit out of me.

"It's all your fucking fault. I hate you. I hate you so much. Why can't you just leave us alone?"

I am trying to imagine that I am viewing myself, my life, as the home audience. I just can't wait to meet my sober alter-ego. This is my small-screen TV look at new mediums. What is my life, politics or entertainment? What would I say about the character Billy? He is an ugly person and his pores are humongous? That's he's useless? A bitch? Owes a buck twenty-five in library fines?

The diseased one. Bringer of pain (look at Gordon), injustice (look at Dewey), and suffering (ala the rest of the world).

Zack departs like monarch butterflies, migrating to their sanctuary in Mexico for the winter. He's blurring. I can barely focus on anything important anymore. I just can't wait to go to sleep. It's been so long since I've had a dream.

Nahh nahh nana nahhhhh.

Guitar solo fades to soft weeping.


	5. new directions and bad affections

An1: confwuzzled, this wasn't coincidental, your review inspired me to post this next part. hopelesslydevoted12: yeah, very emo. Not quite as much as it could be though, because summer has made my life pretty drama/angst-less. Chinsky: I love social studies so... I'm not exactly relating to you on that whole pain thing. I love how you're always praising me. That's the best...

An2s: Things are going to move very, very quickly from here-on-out. A lot of things might not make sense. Sorry. I need to wrap things up relatively soon. I've got ANOTHER fic in the works. One with intentional humor, a clichéd plot, and some happiness. It's going to be totally surreal.

----

Two eyes stare skyward. I could have been mistaken for dead. Like a psychopathic serial killer halfway into the movie, right before the fifth-to-last grand finale. But that's just not how I roll.

I choke and my mind regurgitates childhood memories. Playing in the sprinkler, the red bows on all my Christmas presents, skinning my knee on the way to school. Pathetic childhood rhymes dip into the present and morph into disgusting parodies. Sticks and stones broke my bones... first comes blood, then comes marriage, then comes... death.

I'm hyperventilating in the thick August heat. An off-duty security guard in tight cotton shorts says something to me. I can't hear him, though, and squint at his Gaussian-blurred shape. There's this buzzing in my brain, like a hundred-thousand bees had climbed into my head when I was knocked out and were settling in for a long winter.

I bet he's saying something like, "What's your name, son? I'm gonna need a photo ID." Or, "What'd you take? Do I need to call poison control?" Something scripted straight out of a training video about dealing with over-stimulated, half-mauled Jewish boys. The faux man-of-law speaks into his shoulder-mounted radio. I think he's calling for an ambulance.

I am swallowed by the swarm of bees in my brain.

My eyelids are manually pried open by crusty fingers. Swiftly closed. Then forced open again. What ever happened to fucking leaving me alone? I am awake now and the number one thing I can think about is the light, shinning into my eyes.

A flashlight. A voice. I can hear again.

"What's your name?" he says with a Slavonic accent.

Oh god, here we go.

"Kid, c'mon, what's your name?"

I give him bullshit on a golden platter. And he eats it all up.

"Freddy? Listen to me Freddy."

He tries to give me one of those talks. Motel Six is open only to paying customers, and even if I am staying here, I can't sleep on the roof, it's off limits.

My eyes are more than half-shut, and I'm nodding off to his raspy, Ukrainian voice. A police siren wails, but it's far away from us.

"Are you hungry Freddy?"

"Mmmm..." I mumble. There _is_ that giant, gapping hole where my stomach should be. I gave away all my fries at lunch so the emo-kids would leave me alone.

He picks me up in his arms, and I hang limply. I am close to someone again. Two people in one week. A record, for me.

I keep my distance in his Geo. Rent-A-Cop, who I'm calling Vladimir in my mind, seems to have completely forgotten about me. He pays more attention to handling the stick shift and staying on the right side of the dotted yellow lines. I watch the other cars' brights dim as they approach us.

"How old are you?" he asks.

"Eighteen?" I lie, chewing on chapped lips.

Vladimir nods, like I've given him the correct answer on some hip game show and I've won a million heresy kisses. Eventually, he stops the car and I follow him into this shitty little diner.

The waitress stares at me like I'm demon spawn. Vlad sits and nods, and runs a thin finger around the rim of his tumbler. I order almost a third of the menu before I retreat to the men's room. The lights flicker overhead while I empty the paper towel dispenser in a vain attempt to clean myself up without breaking out into sheer hysterics.

I fucking hurt.

Suck it up, Gordon, I tell my dismal reflection.

Vlad hands me a drink from his tray. Dr. Pepper, I think. I've never been so thirsty before, so I gulp it down. And he smiles, with crooked teeth.

Right, that's it, I think.

1111

Billy Billy Billy. I see his face in my mind, but he's not the one in front of me right now.

"Can I kiss you?" he asks pleadingly.

You know... "Um... no," I say.

"Please, just once?" He's undressing me like a Barbie doll.

"No." I try to keep him from my boxers.

"You're so handsome... please can I kiss you?"

He picks up my clothes and breathes in the scent of my blood-stained shirt. Who cares if he kisses me? Just once, I'll let him. Not like I haven't been a slut lately.

"Okay," I say, and my mind screams at me that I'm making a mistake, worse than a mistake; I'm going to regret this so fuc-

1111

Everything rushes at me; the walls, the ceiling. I'm pulled down down down to where I can't get back up again. So I lie there. My brain no longer works; my body will not allow itself to move. I wonder if this will ever stop, breathe deeply, and take mental bets against myself. I can't even stop the drool from coming out of my mouth.

I'm forced to take in my surroundings with glazed-over eyes. A fan turns overhead, slowly spinning down towards me, the black sky turning to purple and blue shadows, receding into orange hazy clouds. In the window, the sun flashes and lights up one of the most beautifully ironic sunsets I've ever seen. Nothing comes and nothing goes. And then...

"What'sss your name, kid? Are you ssstaying at thisss motel?"

Floating between unconsciousness I think, a paramedic with a lisssp. Great.

He says his name is Jeremy, like it will make up for the throbbing pain in the back of my skull. A real police officer watches on, fingering his taser. Fucking shoot me already.

Jeremy shows me a needle, and taps it, like in the movies. I lift my arm to stop him but pain shoots through my ribcage. No more drugs, no more drugs, no more drugs.

"Moooaaaannnn…" I go, and writhe around a little bit too much, and hurt even worse. I am too drained and too spineless to try it again. He pumps me so full of drugs I see three new colors in the rainbow. I wait for the pain to stop, but everything moves so slowly when you're incapacitated. Finally: eyelids meet together, slowly. For a while, I sleep, I sleep, I forget.

I dream of tubes-in-my-throat and more needles and puffy eyes. Who knows how much time passes? My dream hands reach towards my dream face and touch harsh cotton bandages and stitches, oh god, the stitches. I can't realize what's happening though. That this isn't me dreaming, but me, awake, and crying so hard until I can't talk, can't swallow.

The worst part of it was that I couldn't remember a thing.

What did I do to hurt so much? To be dealt so much damn misery in one fucking day?


	6. a time to be so small

AN: short. So so so incredibly short. But... comprehensible? Maybe. Billy POV. 

----

There's nothing left in the room, I keep telling myself. Nothing, nada, no hablo espanol, jodí arriba.

Todo.

It's all my fucking fault. I hate me. I hate me so much. Why can't I leave them alone?

Zack has never been very eloquent, and he said some mean shit to me. But it all had meaning, value, worth. His words mean more to the world than I do.

He's so pretty. So so pretty. I'd hold him all night long, gently, and we'd cry together and talk about everything because I don't know him at all. And we'd go on cruises together to exotic locations and see all the pretty eye-candy that the world has to offer, because it always comes back to sex, and scream PDA every ten minutes because we're still kids.

There has to be nothing up there, I tell myself again, I'm completely cleaned out. The rest of the X surrendered itself to me hours ago. But I'm falling from my second high now. The world is scary once again. And it is so so real.

I watch Zack leave me. What does he know? He can't know more than me. That's like... he's like... inerrant. So I run from Zack, and his truth, back to the room where Dewey tried to sober me up. There has to be something left, somewhere in this cruel world.

My stuff is thrown all over the room in my chaotic search. Sequent-packets, platform boots, skirts from when I shared my suitcase with Michelle (that lasted all of like two minutes). There are tears running down my cheeks. If feels like there are a thousand-million needles stabbing into my head. It honestly hurts so bad right now, I just want something to dull the pain. Or scream until my throat closes up.

But I can't find anything, because Dewey cares so fucking much about me. He cares enough to leave a (recovering) drug addict alone, with the doors unlocked. No, no. That's unfair and it doesn't make sense. Dewey never made sense.

I remember when I first noticed him. Not just saw him, but really looked and realized what the fuck he was doing to our lives. He let Summer dry-hump the grade book until she realized her precious A's wouldn't get her through the long winters on Frigidbitchia. He made Tomika grow some balls. He got Zack's dad to back the hell off (his ass).

And he... got me out of the closet, albeit kicking and screaming. No, really. I was ready to tongue kiss Eleni to Armageddon and back. But then he shoved me in the general direction of Boy's Town one Saturday afternoon before a Chicago-show. Fucking queer boy owes it all to this chump. And what does queer-boy do to pay him back?

Right now, I'm turning my back on him, and I'm going through his stuff. Dewey's a rocker, so he's a roller. He's got to have some pot, right?

Why didn't I think of this before, I'm so brilliant, so so so incredibly smart, and charming, and good looking. I check my reflection out in a mirror, and realize that I'm drooling a little. So I wipe my mouth with my sleeve, no big deal, and continue to pick through Dewey's brown corduroy handbag.

I hear something rattle, and briefly think it's the door handle. Like Hamlet's ghost has come to get me. So I spin around, and hug a wall, quite literally. My heart races, the tips of my fingers hurt from chewing down my nails too much. But there's nobody there. Literally, nobody. The door didn't even move.

So that's when I look down, and see the bottle in my hand, with a piece of paper attached. I read the loopy handwriting that can only belong to a person of medicine.

Some methylpheidate.

Related to cocaine, except not. Because it's legal when a doctor prescribes it, like this one did, for Freddie. Not legal, for me, when I take it in the middle of the night in the middle of a thunderstorm in the middle of a total meltdown.

I pull my shirt up over my head like I'm a turtle. And I lay down on the bed, with my feet hanging off the side. The power flickers on and off occasionally.

Really. What could Zack know that I don't to make him act like that? He's only a month older than me, and he's too caught up in the music, and he's fucking SOME RANDOM over in the next room.

Underclassmen don't OD. It's a rule. I read it somewhere. But I'm legal now. I'm supposed to fill out my draft card and be so so responsible. I pick up the phone, and try to read the numbers through my teary eyes. 9-1-1. Upperclassmen OD all the fucking time. They just remember to call for help. But I can't.

And I shiver on the bed for all of about an eternity. And think. About...

Thoughts shift back to Zack. Making love in the next room. He's caught up in some precocious moment that I probably could never understand because I don't have class. There, I said it. Well, neither does he, because he's a cheating, lying asshole, but goddammit. He's in love with something so so real right now, even if it is himself. It could be anyone that's sucking him off right now, but he's probably so content right now that it has to be SOME RANDOM in a short skirt.

God forbid he admits his real feelings to Katie.

God forbid I admit...

...that I fucked up.

So, so badly.

Dewey finds me just before I pass out. Passionately. With foam at the mouth and everything.

He bangs on my chest with his fist, while I stare up at the ceiling with the blankest, deadest eyes I can muster.

I'm thinking, maybe I've figured this thing out. How to cheat the fucking system. I want to have brain damage, and loose my five-minute boyfriend, and kill my dealer. I want to be so numb from drugs I don't even feel the random hands feeding cords down my trachea. Stomach pumps are really not as glamorous as they seem.

As order is being restored to my body, I close my eyes and try to imagine myself as a kid again. Dad (this is before the car crash he and mom "succumbed" to) pushing around a tike on a bike. My ethics are redefined. Black is bad and white is good. I just wanted to feel incredible for one more night. But I am so small, that when the doctors pull Dewey away from my bed to fill out some forms... I feel so fucking fallible.

111

umm... both bois are at the hospital. does that mean something? umm... of course. and in case you didn't catch it, billy's parents died in a car crash a while back. so he is HP-ing.


End file.
